one more time with feeling
by possibilist
Summary: quinn/yale prof headcanon. one-shot, with a little faberry. 'When you make an introductory comment about Lacanian melancholia, she smiles at you. She has blue eyes. She has dimples. She turns to the chalk board and you watch her hips, think about sin and grace. There is chalk on Lauren's hands, white and pure and fleeting.'


summary: quinn/yale prof headcanon. one-shot, with a little faberry. 'When you make an introductory comment about Lacanian melancholia, she smiles at you. She has blue eyes. She has dimples. She turns to the chalk board and you watch her hips, think about sin and grace. There is chalk on Lauren's hands, white and pure and fleeting.'

an (1): i hope you're all doing well, surviving finals, and enjoying your respective holidays with lovely people.

an (2): title from regina spektor's 'one more time with feeling.' reference from richard siken.

…

one more time with feeling (your stitches are all out, but your scars are healing wrong)

.

_you're in the eighth grade. you know these things. you know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore._

_—_'a primer for small weird loves' by richard siken

…

You only talk about Lacan on the first day of Psych 101 because you're nervous. And, okay, sure, it's also because your professor, one Lauren Baxter, PhD, is attractive and young, with long dark wild hair and her left arm covered in a colorful tattoo sleeve. She's exciting and funny and the thought crosses your mind that she doesn't know you have a child, that she doesn't know you spent half of senior year learning how to walk again.

She doesn't know you at all.

When you make an introductory comment about Lacanian melancholia, she smiles at you. She has blue eyes. She has dimples. She turns to the chalk board and you watch her hips, think about sin and grace. There is chalk on Lauren's hands, white and pure and fleeting.

.

You go to her office hours the next week.

'Hi,' she says, sitting back in her chair and looking up from what you see is a journal.

'I'm Quinn,' you say.

'I remember,' she tells you. 'You've read Lacan.'

You laugh. 'I was trying to impress you.'

Lauren leans forward, laces her fingers together. 'Were you, now?'

You find yourself blushing; you feel like a _freshman_. 'From a purely intellectual point of view, I can assure you, Dr. Baxter.'

'Lacan does have some beautiful aesthetics.' She shakes her head with a little smile. 'Call me Lauren.'

.

You flirt with her during a few more office hours; it seems harmless. Then you're at a homecoming party, with hundreds of people who've never seen your scars. Your spine feels strong, and you see Lauren standing across the room, her hair tied up. You're not drunk and you don't want to be—you don't want that as an excuse, not again, not when this is what you actually want.

You stand in front of her and Lauren smiles, all dimples and blue eyes, and she takes your hand, leads you away from the crowd of people.

You head down the lawn—the whole party thoroughly reminds you of Gatsby, _he dispensed starlight to casual moths_—and Lauren says, 'We can't tell anyone; do you understand?'

'Yeah,' you say.

Lauren nods, then puts one of her hands through your hair, the other against the small of your back. She presses her lips to yours, gently, softly, and you sigh, run your tongue against her bottom lip.

You close your eyes but can still see the flicker of the bonfire in the background, sparks, flames, smoke.

.

You go to Lauren's place that night, a pretty house with hardwood floors and a big white bed. She's gentle, and you're suddenly nervous when she starts to unbutton the front of your blouse. It's not that you don't know what you're doing, but more so that there's a part of you that's sure that if Lauren—or anyone, for that matter—will want to be with you once they find out. About you, about any of your actual life—the latent despair of Lacan's psychoanalysis behind his aesthetic.

But Lauren doesn't seem to notice your scars: she doesn't try to ask or touch them; her breath doesn't catch, she doesn't look at you like some miracle.

Instead she tugs your skirt from your hips and you lie back on her bed, and she trails kisses down your stomach.

'Fuck,' she whispers between your legs, and you fist your hands in her hair and try to forget too.

.

The next morning you leave after breakfast, where Lauren tells you about her master's work with bipolar patients.

'That sounds fascinating,' you say, then take a bite of French toast.

When you get home, you debate not taking your meds, and for a few seconds you debate taking them all.

Instead you slip one small serotonin re-uptake inhibitor in your mouth and swallow.

.

For the next few weeks, you spend weekends at Lauren's. You watch old films and she teaches you philosophy and law and neurochemistry. You ask her if she's read Badiou, and she smiles and says, 'I don't believe I have.'

.

Just before midterms, you get pneumonia.

'I can—' you hear Lauren shuffling around in the background— 'I can come stay with you in the hospital.'

'It's okay,' you tell her. 'Really, I'm fine. I'll see you soon.'

She doesn't come, and you're not sure if you wanted her to or not.

.

You lie to Santana because you figure she knows anyway, and sometimes you still really, _really _like to lie.

Later that weekend though, you're resting your head on Santana's chest and she's running her hand through your hair which desperately needs some attention. You tell her, 'My professor isn't a guy.'

'Obviously,' Santana says.

'Okay.'

'You still—just—be safe, okay, Quinn?'

'Yeah,' you whisper. 'Sure.'

.

You go back to Yale, and you knock on Lauren's door.

'Hey, Quinn!' she says, and folds you into a hug. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better,' you say, and you desperately don't want this. Instead you push her inside and _fuck_ her against the kitchen counter; in your head you know it's the last time.

You spoon afterward, and she holds you gently. You'll stay the night, but you'll leave in the morning.

'I got hit by a truck and my spine was compressed. I punctured my lung. I had a brain injury,' you whisper.

Lauren doesn't say anything, doesn't move.

You keep going. 'I have borderline bipolar disorder. I have a daughter, Beth, who's adopted.'

You wait; you hold your breath. You turn over and Lauren is asleep.

.

The next morning, you tell Lauren, 'I'll see you in class.'

'Okay, Quinn,' she says. She nods, and you trust she understands. She runs her hands over your arms, and you almost picture chalk against your skin, although she leaves no residue.

.

That afternoon you call Santana, and you text Rachel. You make plans to visit in New York soon.

You Skype with Beth, who has learned her ABCs.

You find a counselor at the student health center who deals with family trauma. You make an appointment, and you stand a little straighter. You lace on running shoes and you don't stop until you can't breathe, until everything aches, not just your chest or your spine. Maybe you'll get a haircut later; maybe you'll read some poetry and sleep in.

Maybe you deserve a little time to heal, to see where your aching muscles and burning lungs take you eventually.

.

'I'm so excited for you to visit,' Rachel tells you when you call her one night.

You smile. It's a different feeling; not melancholia, because you're no longer mourning the loss something you never had in the first place, and you're not supplanting your ego for the lost object cause.

Maybe this is what beginning again feels like. Maybe this is the opposite of loneliness, and you say, 'Me too.'

That night you go with one of your best friends and get a tattoo on your ribcage, beneath your scar—the ink is black and neat, permanent reside of your self-worth, in case you ever need a reminder again.


End file.
